


Adventures Of Dean-o

by ZiggyWilderness



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-09 07:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11664822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiggyWilderness/pseuds/ZiggyWilderness
Summary: Set in an AU where Dean is older, around mid-late 40s. Dean is alone, and always moving. He is a singular grain of sand flowing along a river bed, occasionally bumping up against familiar things. Not intended to abide by the canon, the 'AU' is essentially my way of saying I'll be changing things.





	1. The Crowley Agenda

His makeshift alter gleamed in the low lights of the farm house he was squatting in, the blood it soaked in catching and reflecting whatever it could. Dean briefly wondered what demon blood tasted like. His brother had been willing to throw away everything for it. He didn’t ponder it long, he had a schedule to keep. He checked the wristwatch that he had synced to the area, ten minutes left. He removed a lighter and a knife from his pocket, flicked the lighter to life and held the blade over the flame. Slowly the metal heated and shifted color. First black, then a reddish orange. When it was white at the tip he unbuttoned his shirt and pressed the back of the blade onto the circumference of his anti-possession ward, biting down on a scream. He then lit the candles surrounding the altar and let the blade cool long enough to draw blood. As soon as the thick drops of it shattered into the bowl of ingredients he could feel a change in the room.

A choking, inky smoke replaced the air around him and forced it’s way down his throat. Dean could see the vapor swimming in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. He heard his voice say, “Boy, it sure is good to be out Dean-o.” Felt his hands reach out, fingers stretching, head tilt back, lungs deeply inhale. He felt sick and foreign in his own body, could not will himself to move of his own accord. He pushed at the restraint, felt his black eyes roll and his hand move to his pocket where there was a pen and notepad waiting. The pen scratched deliberately across the unlined paper, leaving self important gouges in blue ink. The pen and notepad were dropped on the floor. “This better not be one of your Winchester gags, Dean-o. I got you what you wanted.”

Dean pushed again and the room lost it’s inky tinge as the smoke came up and scattered until the area was clear again. He had taken quite a risk, letting a demon possess him, knowing damn well that trusting a demon never worked out in the long run. He quickly put on the amulet that would take the place of his tattoo, until he could get it redone. He didn’t have to wonder if the ink would work as well over scar tissue. The shape wouldn’t be perfect but it would do it’s job.

He rebuttoned his shirt as he looked at the notepad on the floor. He swore under his breath. It was too blurry to read from that distance, his eyesight was getting worse. He bent over to pick it up, his back creaking slightly. Decades of hunting had not been kind to him, but what was on this notepad could very well change that. He held it up, metal spirals shining in the candle light. They were coordinates. “Only crossroads Crowley ever works,” he had been told. The long time king of Hell still occasionally did grunt work. “Who knows why. I sure as fuck wouldn’t,” one of his many informants had said after a fair amount of holy water to the face. Dean knew why. There was an apathy that came with having everything figured out. A feeling that sucked you dry and left you like a husk. Dean stuffed the notebook back in his pocket and blew out the candles. He smiled a little bit when he thought about some local yokel stumbling on the mess he’d made.

He walked out, leaving everything behind except what he needed, and got into a dusty blue pick up truck he’d paid $230 to borrow for the weekend. He drove back to the small town the house skirted, and washed the blood off of his hands before returning it to it’s owner. The woman looked skeptical, but she was richer for it and was pretty sure she didn’t want to know. He walked the near empty streets and made his way to the bus depot, using their wifi to look up the coordinates. Google maps showed him a dirt road in Wyoming. It would be a long trip from “you got a perdy mouth” Tenessee, but dean was used to long trips.

The clerk working the ticket desk didn’t bother asking how his day was, she had seen him 3 days ago and he looked the same now as he did then. Tired. The ticket he bought would get him to a city with an airport, and from there he’d fly. The bus was leaving the next day so Dean figured he may as well get a motel room while he was here, no point going back out to the farm house. While he waited there was an abundance of crappy TV and a scarcity of sleep. He didn’t sleep much these days. Couldn’t fall asleep, and if he managed that part, he couldn’t stay asleep.

The bus arrived 15 minutes late, and got to their destination an hour late, but Dean didn’t mind, he wasn’t in any hurry. After that he bought his airfare at the airport and sat down to wait again. There was a boarding call and he was on the plane. When he was younger he’d been terrified he would die in a plane crash, these days, he mostly flew. Didn’t even own a car anymore. The car had been his home, it was a constant, a place to hang his hat more than any shitty motel ever had been, but over time maintaining even that wore on him. He’d always thought he’d wanted a home, but if airports and bus terminals had shown him anything, it was that he didn’t believe in permanent installations. How could he? So he took buses, cabs, rented cars, airplanes, rarely saw the same person twice, and he wasn’t afraid to die.

He landed in Wyoming, delays and lay overs doing nothing but keeping him from the inevitable, just a little longer. Wyoming was where he’d find Hell. After that, it was another bus ride to another rural town. He kicked up dust as he walked along the dirt roads, following a map a gap toothed old man had drawn for him at the gas station. And there it was. Box in hand he made his way to the centre, buried it, and waited. And waited. He couldn’t remember any crossroads summoning ever taking this long. He looked around him, stars burning in the black sky above him, nothing but barley fields on every side, swaying in the night breeze. Dean shivered. He walked in a circle, kicked at dirt, and called out. He stared into the empty sky and screamed. Falling to his knees he felt like he might cry, even like he wanted to, but nothing happened, he was as still as the dirt underneath him. The he heard a voice.

It was cautious, almost afraid, but clearly trying to portray some semblance of confidence. It wasn’t Crowley. Dean Stood up as fast as his joints would allow and spun on his heels. “Where’s Crowley.”

“He ah.. He doesn’t work crossroads anymore.”

“Where’s Crowley.”

“I told you, he doesn’t work crossroads anymore, and neither do you. The Winchesters have caused us enough trouble, so quit trying to make deals, alright?”

Dean's patience was slipping. He was so close. “Bullshit. If you’re not here to deal why’d you come at all?” He slid his hand to the back of his jeans, reaching for Ruby’s knife.

“Like, I said, I came to tell you to stop try-” Dean rushed the demon, throwing his anti possession charm around its neck and holding the knife up to it’s throat. “Yeah. That’s right. You’re stuck, and you know what this knife does. Tell me where the fuck Crowley is or you die for real.” The demon sputtered, “LOOK MAN I FUCKING TOLD Y-” stopping short when the knife started to draw blood. The air around them started to reek of sulfur, and Dean pressed harder. At this point he wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of its mouth, he was just clenching his teeth and slowly crushing the things windpipe while slicing open its skin. There was no hope here, only disappointment and rage, and hot blood coursing over his hands. Something cut above the choking sounds and pleas, something far clearer, calmer, if a little spent.

“Dean.”

“DEAN.”

The pressure on the knife let up, Dean pushed the struggling demon away from him. As soon as it was free it tore the necklace off and jettisoned itself from the body it had possessed. The woman, still bleeding profusely from her neck fell to the ground and tried to gasp out cries for help through her mangled throat. Dean turned slowly. He was now facing Crowley, after months of work trying to find any demon who would rat on the king of hell, to a Winchester no less, and then more months probing a network of informants, here he was, standing on a dirt road in Wyoming, looking Crowley in the eye. He didn’t trust his eyes anymore, or much of anything for that matter, but if what he was seeing now was a lie, he didn’t want to know. “Crowley.” Crowley nodded, hesitated, then stepped forward, his long black coat flapping gently in the breeze.

“Yes.” Dean closed the gap between them and threw the knife to the ground.

“Take me to hell.” Crowley eyed him warily, then glanced toward the woman bleeding out on the ground beside them.

“What about her?” Dean didn’t spare her a thought.

“I don’t care.” His tone was determined and no part of Crowley questioned that statement.

“You sure have changed Dean-o.” He sighed and put his hand on Deans forehead. “You have to agree.”

“I agree.” Dean’s body crumpled to the ground as his soul was transported with Crowley.

They stood in his office, a large room with floor to ceiling windows on one side. The windows looked out onto hell fire, an endless sea of it, millions of tortured souls suspended throughout. The only source of noise was the pained screaming of the damned. “What do you want?” Crowley asked, knowing the answer. Dean looked at him, his eyes begging for a mercy no one could possibly expect from the king of hell. Dean didn’t expect it either, but he hoped he would have it. It was the only option he had left. “Bring Sam back.” They had both known this was coming, this exact conversation, this exact pause. Crowley had tried to avoid it, he’d fed Dean false information from the start, but he’d still found a way, he’d sent some low level demon in his place when Dean summoned, and yet still they were here. He didn’t quite know why he’d stepped in. Pity maybe, the closest thing to friendship either of them had? They had been a thorn in each other’s sides for a long time, but with that came a certain level of understanding, a closeness people like them weren’t often permitted. Dean looked back out the window to avoid meeting Crowley’s penetrating gaze. He had been on the other side of the glass before, he knew what it was like, what he was asking for would put him back there. In his mind, he faltered for a second, wondering if having Sam back was what he needed, what he wanted, if that could possibly change his life in any way that mattered anymore. It had been nearly 10 years since Sam died. Dean had lived without him. But a single thought of the world he lived in now, plane to plane, bus to bus, nothing and no one, banished every doubt from his mind, and he faced Crowley again. “Why?”

“He’s my brother.”

“And he’s been dead a long time, you’ve brought him back before, and he died anyway.”

“Are you trying to sell me some destiny crap? Huh? Sam’s dead because, what, it was __meant to be__?” 

“No. I just mean, is it worth it? Digging him up, over and over again, only to put him back in the ground?” Dean was finding it difficult to think clearly. He kept trying to find the reasons he needed Sam back, why it mattered, why he would sell his soul for it. He just kept hearing Crowley’s voice. Dean rasped, “we burned him.”

“Twice now. Are you ready for a third?”

“You don’t… You don’t know.”

“Dean-o,” Crowley formed a small fatigued smile, “of course I know.”

Dean leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the Boschian scene playing out below them, his memories of it seared into his brain. Crowley had remained unchanged, physically at least, in the years it had been, Dean of course, had changed. His hair was noticeably grey and fine lines laced his face and hands, some of them not so fine. He hadn’t aged well, he looked diminished, a hard life finally catching up with him. “Come, sit.” Crowley motioned toward a sofa and love seat with a matching coffee table. Dean sat, not realizing how much effort he’d been putting into remaining standing. “Have a beer.” One appeared on the coffee table within Dean’s reach, he picked it up, slowly, feeling the once familiar weight of it in his palm. It was ice cold, and in the hot room condensation quickly coated it as the glass bottle perspired. Dean didn’t drink much anymore, and when he did he skipped the foreplay and went straight to the hard stuff. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what a cold beer tasted like. “I’ll…” He stopped, collecting himself, gripping the cold bottle trying to restore some lucidity to his thoughts. “I’ll do anything, take anything I mean. It doesn’t have to be Sam, if you could just... get me in touch with Cas one more time, anything…” Crowley looked at the floor and frowned, Dean could feel his chance slipping away. “Is it the time? You don’t have to give me ten years, one year, six months even, I don’t need long…”

 Crowley sighed. “Dean, at this point I’d give you a hundred, but we both know there isn’t a deal in hell that could make you happy.”

Dean stared hard at the bottle in his hand, he took a sip. It was awful. Whatever taste he had acquired was long gone. He set it down and closed his eyes. “You’re right. You’re right. You’re right.” He opened his eyes and stood, knees cracking as he did, and extended his hand toward Crowley. Crowley took it and they shook like old friends. And Then Dean was lying on a dirt road covered in blood in the middle of Wyoming. The woman beside him had stopped struggling and her body had gone cold, He stood, stumbled a bit, straightened himself out, and started walking in the direction of the rising sun. He could still taste the beer, as if it had stained his mouth. As the sun pulled over the horizon line it turned everything almost blindingly bright, and Dean felt as if it was burning away something inside him. He figured he would keep on walking, just keep on walking until he found something that made him want to stick around. He figured he might just keep on walking forever.


	2. World's Greatest Cup of Coffee

Cracked linoleum had an undeniable charm, and it certainly felt better under his feet than gravel. Dean had walked, and walked, and walked. His body ached and he was hungry, so when he had come across a roadside diner that was open at 3 am, with a flickering neon sign advertising the world’s greatest cup of coffee, gratitude flooded him. He didn’t know who he was grateful to, whether it was the exhausted, broke people inside trying to make ends meet, or some higher power. He wondered if there were any discernible differences between the two.  
Sitting at the counter he stared up at the lighted menu, in awe of it’s contents. Hash browns may as well have been the body of Christ, and this old diner the most illustrious church he’d ever seen. He went on staring, taking it in without digesting any of it. After looking directly at it nearly 15 minutes he couldn’t have told someone what it said any more than if it had been in Russian. A waitress cleared her throat. She was rail thin, with dark circles under her eyes. Dean wondered what predilection had brought her here, to the Church of Hash Brown the Utterly Indifferent. She cleared her throat and readied a notepad, it looked a lot like the one in the bottom of Dean’s duffel, though he imagined the contents of hers contained more meaning, in the end. “Can I get you somethin’?” Her tone was flat, like a dying lake. “Uh… Eggs.” They had to have eggs.  
“How’d you like ‘em?” He tore his gaze from the menu board and let it fall to the counter in front of him, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly. “Sunny side up.”  
“Hash browns with that?”  
“I’d better not.” She put the note pad back in the front pocket of her apron, Dean noticed now that she hadn’t been holding a pen. She turned and disappeared behind a door he presumed led to the kitchen. He went on inspecting the counter top.  
Faux marble that split apart along the edges and peeled in places. There was movement in front of him, across the counter. An old man was wiping things down with a rag that was probably white once. The counter, the glasses, plates, ancient milkshake machine. Anything with the possibility of collecting dust. He wore a name tag that said “Buddy.” Dean wondered if that was his real name, or an attempt at humor in such an apathetic place. Buddy grinned at Dean. “What brings you here stranger?”  
“Eggs I guess...”  
“Eggs huh?” Buddy’s expression was somewhere between comic disbelief and disappointment  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, if it’s eggs you want it’s eggs you’ll get friend-o, but I don’t expect you came all the way here for some late night breakfast.” The frown on Dean’s face deepened.  
“What do people usually come here for?” Buddy whistled.  
“Oh lots of things.”  
“But not eggs.”  
“Not usually.”  
Buddy went right on grinning, and the florescent lights illuminated every line in his face. “They usually come here to wake up.” Dean looked around. There was no one there except he and Buddy, and whoever was in the kitchen. It was near silent but for the slight sound of sizzling. The stool he sat on was surprisingly comfortable. The faded red vinyl hadn’t aged well but it didn’t seem to matter. Dean noticed a pot of coffee steaming behind buddy.  
“World’s greatest cup of coffee, eh?”  
Buddy’s smile widened. “That’s what the sign says.”


End file.
